Close
by hoshiko2kokoro
Summary: Arthur can only hear Alfred when he closes his eyes.


_A/N_: I recommend you don't listen to "Any Other Name" by Thomas Newman if you don't want to cry.

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><p>It starts when Arthur closes his eyes. A light touch, a ghosting of breath on his eyelashes, and warmth on the tips of his kneecaps. Then, he'd hear a voice that, no matter what was spoken, would tear Arthur's heart in two.<p>

"I'm here, Arthur," he would say. A hand would slide across Arthur's knee, rubbing small circles on the bone. "I'm here, sweetheart."

Arthur's body would start to shake, and he'd push away as tears threatened to escape his eyes. That hand would grip at his knee and that voice would grow urgent.

"Please, Arthur. Wake up. Please, sweetheart. Wake up."

And Arthur's green eyes would open, liquid making them glisten, and looking around the room with heavy breath, he'd find the bedroom empty again. Falling into the pillow and crying, it would repeat every night. And oh, how his heart could be heard shattering in that lonely apartment.

"Tell me what he says," Arthur's therapist, Isabella, says with her constant gentle tone.

Arthur was lying on the red couch, his hands rubbing his face until he curled onto his side and placed them between his knees. He looked at the fabric, noticing some bits of lint had stuck to the cushion. "It… It's the same thing… He tells me to wake up… Like I can only hear him when I'm sleeping… When my eyes are closed."

Isabella nodded, scribbling on her notepad. "And when you wake up, it's the same? Empty?"

Arthur sighed, his entire body deflating with it, and then nodded. "Yes… But…he sounds so real. I can feel him. Is this just some cruel trick of God? Some way to get back at me for not loving Alfred…?"

"Arthur," Isabella started, long since foregoing formalities of names. "You know you loved Alfred with all your heart, and Alfred knew it too. Do not think God is torturing you for any of this."

"Alfred… He saved me… Why… am I still here?" Arthur asked.

And Isabella didn't reply.

A year. Arthur had wandered the world in a blind heartache, colorblind to everyone and everything, and just going about the motions of life. He would go home and do nothing. Not eat, not sleep, not even caring for himself. He was just waiting to die. Waiting to see Alfred again.

Night time would bring out that voice he yearned to hear. Arthur leaned into the touches, wishing for more, and selfishly staying awake during the night to be with Alfred, if only in his dreams. Each time, Alfred would urge Arthur to wake up, confirming that this was indeed all in his head, and Alfred wasn't real.

But oh, how it felt so. They would kiss, and Arthur would whisper his undying affections for Alfred, and how he only lived on for him. Only for him, in the off chance he died in a freak accident come morning. Alfred told him how wrong that was, and he should never want death. It was only by his promise to Alfred that Arthur never took his own life.

"Arthur," Alfred had whispered one evening. He stroked Arthur's lower back. "Sweetheart, I'm always here. I'm always right beside you. I'm never far, always close to you. Please, believe me. I have never left."

Hearing these words, Arthur began to breathe erratically and his heart raced. It was impossible. He just couldn't still be there. Logic overtook the moment, and Arthur would open his eyes, and there was never any Alfred there.

Just the cold reminder that Arthur was alive, and Alfred was not.

And Arthur would curl into himself, and heave until he passed out. Crying without restraint for hours when he couldn't anymore.

"Tell me of that day," Isabella asked one session.

Arthur was only able to afford daily therapist visits by the gracious expense of Alfred's parents who worried about the poor man's state. They lived only a few miles away, and would come to visit from time to time, cleaning his apartment, and making him meals. Recently they had resorted to buying him groceries and having dinner ready for him by the time he was out of his sessions.

Arthur was still curled on his side. This time he gulped and hesitated. Then, "It was night time. We were arguing." He chuckled, shaking his head. "We did that often… I told him to go right, but he went left… I told him to turn around. He was so mad, he did right there in the middle of the bloody street. He didn't see… The truck…"

Isabella was quiet. "You say he protected you. How did he?"

By now, Arthur was crying silently, staring at the blinds of the window. The light was grey today and barely any sun peeked through. Eventually it all just blurred together.

"He…he threw himself over me… What an idiot. My idiot… He protected me… That…that truck hit the side of our car…and we spun out of control, hitting a pole… but Alfred… He… And now I'm here."

Arthur began to cry that night. Alfred hadn't shown up yet, and Arthur just cried until he couldn't breathe anymore. His lungs ached for air, but he continued to curl in on himself, clutching at his knees and heaving for more tears rather than air.

"Sweetheart," Alfred said, his voice sounding more worried than normal. "Arthur, breathe. Please. Don't think back to that night. Please. Oh God, please, sweetheart. Just relax. I'm right here."

Arthur clung to him, his eyes closed so hard he saw sparks of color and light behind his eyelids, but it did nothing to quell the burning deep in his heart, boiling the blood in his veins, and making his head dizzy with pain. He gasped for Alfred, kissing at whatever he could touch. He wanted to savor him.

"Alfred… Oh my beloved…," Arthur whispered. "I miss you… I wish you were here…"

"It was different last night," Arthur said to Isabella.

"How?" she asked calmly.

"He…He told me to breathe. He never said for me to wake up," Arthur explained. "Then… He said… that he wasn't dead."

Isabella's breath hitched. "Did he? That's quite a change. What did you say?"

Arthur shook his head violently. "You're dead. You're dead. You're not really here. This is all in my mind. You _cannot_ be alive."

Alfred's voice had grown distressed, and he clutched Arthur against a warm chest, with a heart beat that Arthur could almost feel and hear. A ghost's heart.

"No, Arthur. I'm really here. Please! Please, listen to me!" Alfred begged.

But when Arthur opened his mind, it was all empty again. And he was there in the therapist's room.

Isabella was silent. Then, she stood and crossed the room to look out the window between the blinds. Her hands were behind her back.

"Arthur," she started. "What…_else_ do you remember of that day?"

"They…they told me Alfred was hurt," Arthur started. But he began to shake violently again, and Isabella had to call for someone to administer a sedative to calm him down; something so only did when the moment became too drastic.

When Arthur lay in bed that night, Alfred didn't come. He was absent. And Arthur didn't sleep.

"Why was he gone?" Arthur asked Isabella, his voice hoarse from how tired he felt.

"Perhaps you need to listen to him," Isabella replied. "Listen to him tonight."

Arthur was silent. He gnawed on his lip before asking, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

Isabella put her pen down. "No, Arthur, I do not. But just remember, the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over again, and expecting different results."

Again, Arthur was rendered silent, and his time was eventually up. He wandered home, ignoring the nip in the air of winter, and stumbled into his apartment. Food was waiting on the table for him, but he passed it by. Instead, he fell into his bed, and begged for Alfred to come. He repeated his name, his eyes closed so tight, and his hand outstretched in hopes that ghost would return.

"I'm here," Alfred said. He took Arthur's hands and lay down beside him. He kissed his cheek, letting his lips linger on the skin for a moment. "I'm here, sweetheart. Will you listen to me now?"

Arthur nodded, his nerves lingering on paranoid now. He sounded desperate as he croaked, "Anything…"

"I'm not dead." Arthur froze. "I'm not. I never died. Listen."

But Arthur returned to pushing Alfred away. He shook his head and started to feel bile rise in his mouth. "N-no! You're not! Stop! This is a dream! That's really my hand on my leg, and my hand on my back, and the pillow against my cheek, not you!"

"Arthur! Arthur, stop!"

"You're a ghost!"

"It's all in your head! I've tried _everything_ to make you see me! But you've become delusional! Please! Arthur!"

Isabella looked up from her notes. "He said he's not dead?"

Arthur nodded. He was sitting upright this time, looking out the window with his hands resting on his thighs. It was a sunny day today; rare for the English winters. Almost unheard of, really.

"What should I do?" Arthur whispered.

"Why do you fight it?" Isabella asked. "Is it because your head shouts over your heart?"

Arthur looked over at his therapist. "What?"

"Arthur! Stop! Listen to me! Listen to your heart, please! I'm really here! You know it! I promise you!"

"If I open my eyes, will you be there?"

"Yes!"

But when Arthur opened his eyes, he was not.

"When you hear Alfred tell you these things, such as to wake up or to see him, you get scared. It's as if your logic overruns what you subconsciously know. You've had it drilled into your head by yourself that Alfred is dead, so when that is challenged, you become violent and scared." She looked at Arthur and nodded to the couch. "Please lie down. I want you to close your eyes. I want you to talk to Alfred."

Arthur hesitated. He had trouble following her words, but did as was told. He closed his eyes and waited.

Alfred's hand caressed his cheek. "I'm here."

"What is he saying?" Isabella asked.

"He's here," Arthur replied.

"Sweetheart, listen to me. Listen to Isabella. I am really here. I have never left you…"

"He…he says he's never left me," Arthur said shakily.

"What does he mean?" she asked.

"Arthur, I never ever left your side. I have been with you during all of this. Only when we're at work are we apart. But, sweetheart, I am with you when you go to the store, to therapy, to the park where we always played on Sunday, to the river, and I always, _always_ held your hand as you cried."

Arthur had begun crying again, but he wasn't pushing away. His mind whirled of all the times he'd go to the river and cry, remembering that was where he met Alfred. To the park where he'd play football on Sundays with Alfred until they collapsed in each other's arms, laughing, not caring they were dirty with sweat, and kissing on the grass.

"You never came to see me in the hospital. Why…?"

At this, Arthur began to twist and turn, upset by mention of _that_ day. "I…I!"

"Why, Arthur?" Isabella asked.

"The doctor told me you were hurt! I! I couldn't see you! I didn't want to see you hurt! I wanted to keep you just as you are."

Alfred's hold on Arthur tightened, and now his nose was pressed to Arthur's. "Arthur, he never said I was dead. You told yourself that. And you've been telling yourself that for the past _year_! I never died! Please! Please believe me!"

Isabella moved to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur. Arthur, did you never read the newspaper article of that accident?"

"N-no!"

"He's not dead, Arthur. Open your eyes."

"NO! DON'T SAY IT!" Arthur screamed. His entire body was tense, and he gritted his teeth enough to chip a tooth. "Please… Don't tell me…to wake up… I… I'll think this is all a dream… Please… I'll keep my eyes closed forever."

"Arthur," Alfred cooed, his voice surprisingly soft and gentle, and oh so tangibly close. "Don't sleep forever. I want you to open your eyes. I promise you. You will see me. But you have to let your heart tell you."

"If I open them… Will you be there?"

"Yes."

And Arthur opened his eyes.

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><p><em>Hoshiko2<em>'s cents: I wanted to expand on the end, but. I preferred this.

Pieces based on my own experiences. Hope you enjoyed this weird story of mine.


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